“My silence is not to be taken for consent,” said Claudia, “only it’s too fine a day to spend in trying to improve you or, indeed, anybody else.  But I shall not forget any of my friends.”

Now up to this point Eugene had behaved tolerably well.  It is, however, a dangerous thing to set yourself deliberately to study a lady’s attractions.  Like all other one-sided views of a subject, it is apt to carry you too far.  The sun and the wind were playing about in Claudia’s hair, her eyes were full of light, and her whole air, in spite of a genuine effort after demureness, conveyed to any self-respecting man an irresistible challenge to make himself agreeable if he could.  Eugene’s notions of making himself agreeable were, as may have been gathered, liberal; they certainly included more than can be considered strictly incumbent on young men in society.  And, besides being polite, Eugene was also curious.  It is one thing to silently suffer under a passion which a sense of duty forbids; such a position has its pleasures.  The situation is altered when the idea dawns upon you that there is no reciprocity of graceful suffering; that, in fact, the lady may prefer somebody else.  Eugene wanted to know where he stood.

“Shall you be sorry to leave here?” he asked.

“My feelings will be mixed.  You see, Rickmansworth has actually consented to take me with him to his moor, and that will be great fun.”

“Why, you don’t go killing birds?”

“No, I don’t kill birds.”

“There’ll be only a pack of men there.”

“That’s all.  But I don’t mind that—­if the scenery is good.”

“I believe you’re trying to make me angry.”

“Oh, no!  I know Sir Roderick doesn’t let you be angry.  It’s not good form.”

“Have you no heart, Claudia?”

“I don’t know.  But I have a prefix.”

“Have you, after ten years’ friendship?”

Claudia laughed.

“You make me rather old.  Were we friends when I was ten?”

“Oh, bother dates!  I don’t count by time?”

“Really, Mr. Lane, if you were anybody else I should call this absurd. 
It would be flattering you and myself to call it wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because that would imply you were serious.”

“Would it be wrong if I were?”

“Well, it would be generally considered so, under the circumstances.”

“I don’t care about that.  I have endured it long enough.  Oh, Claudia! don’t you see?”

“I suppose so,” thought Claudia, “I ought to crush him at this point.  I think I’ll wait a little bit, though.”

“See what?” she said.

“Why, that—­that—­”

“Well?”

“Hang it! why is it always so abominably absurd?  Why, that I love the ground you tread on, Claudia?  Is this wretched thing to keep us apart!”

“Mr. Lane, you’re magnificent; but isn’t there a trifling assumption in your last remark?”